Three Times Her Little Throat Around
by Little Claws
Summary: When Hermione leaves Hogwarts with record-breaking N.E.W.T. grades, she is inundated with job offers. Surprisingly, she accepts a tutorship at Malfoy Manor. But as whispers of the Dark Lord begin to emerge, can Hermione escape the sinister, erotic web the Malfoys weave around her? AU. Warnings for sex and kink.
1. Arrival at the Manor

**A/N:** Readers! I hope you're ready to join me in one of my favourite sports: Hermione-baiting. Just a quick note before we begin – while I am borrowing characters, spells, settings etc. from J. K. Rowling, and this story is _not _a crossover, I need to acknowledge a debt to Charlotte Brontë's wonderful novel _Jane Eyre. _To those who are familiar with the book, this debt will be obvious, so I won't explain in detail here. To those who are not: read it! It's fabulous.

One important point: I reply to every signed review I receive. So, if you do choose to leave feedback, feel free to leave questions and/or suggestions and I will be back in touch to chat very soon :) Happy reading! xx

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><p>It was only the first of September, but the pale, overcast morning already seemed suited to deepest autumn. The Wiltshire countryside was mottled brown and bronze as the trees changed, their branches already half-bare, and the sun, which seemed to grow weaker with each passing day, barely brightened its corner of the sky. It was approaching nine o'clock in the morning, but a fine mist still hung in the colder of the narrow lanes.<p>

Against the white sky, the sharp Gothic towers of Malfoy Manor rose like needles.

Suddenly, a flock of birds burst from a silver birch tree, screeching. At the point where the Manor's wide, gravel drive branched away from the road, a solitary figure had appeared with a soft _pop._

The figure was quite small and slender, evidently a woman, and was hooded and cloaked against the chilly morning air. A large trunk, emblazoned with what appeared to be a coat of arms, stood at her side. For a few moments, she remained standing where she had arrived, peering this way and that as though checking her bearings. Then, with a flick of her wand, the trunk rose a few inches off the ground, and floated along behind her as she began to walk briskly up the long, gravel drive between the two dark, flanking hedgerows, glancing around in what seemed like a slightly nervous manner.

Presently, the woman came to a pair of imposing, wrought-iron gates. After a pause, during which she appeared to converse with thin air, the gates swung open, and she continued along the drive up to the steps of the Manor, a ghostly-white peacock flitting away into the hedgerow as she did so.

As the woman ascended the steps, the heavy front door swung inwards, though there was no one to be seen within. She paused for the briefest of moments, and then, after glancing once back down the long driveway towards the road, she guided her hovering trunk inside, followed it, and vanished.

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><p>Hermione Granger.<p>

The name was in the _Prophet, _on the WWN, and on the lips of every head-hunter in the wizarding world. The brightest witch of the age – who had just left Hogwarts School with a record-breaking seven 'Outstanding' N.E.W.T. qualifications, the Medal for Magical Merit, and excellent recommendations from every single one of her delighted teachers – had officially started her first job.

After her graduation, numerous potential employers – St Mungo's Hospital, Gringott's Bank, the Ministry of Magic, and several wizarding law firms – had tripped over themselves in their haste to issue her with offers of employment. Every morning since Hermione had left Hogwarts to stay with her parents, the sleepy London suburb in which they resided had been bombarded by owl after owl, much to the bewilderment of the local urban bird-watching group.

Hermione had accepted none of them.

She had instead accepted – to everyone's very great surprise – the position of tutor at Malfoy Manor, a notorious and aristocratic country house set deep in the Wiltshire countryside.

There were several reasons for this. Firstly, she was in no particular rush to compete for a high-flying position; she knew perfectly well that even the most demanding employers would be delighted to have a response from her at a later date, despite an initial silence. Secondly, given that the last seven years of intense study at Hogwarts had impinged upon the amount of time she was able to devote to thinking through career options, she felt as though she wanted some time to work out precisely what it was she wanted. And thirdly, she knew that rushing into a job might mean that she would find that, a few months down the line, the position was not sufficiently worthwhile to deserve her extraordinary intellectual capability.

Hermione had decided to delay the naissance of her proper career until she was absolutely certain of what she wanted to achieve.

And so, it came about that she accepted an offer for a tutorship.

The letter had been delivered late one Sunday evening, as Hermione had been lying in bed reading _Swallows and Amazons, _a book that her father had read to her as a child. The tap at the window had been so discreet that it had scarcely disturbed her from her reading. Silently remarking upon this pleasant change from the usual screeching and scrabbling of Express Delivery owls, Hermione had padded across the room, pulled aside one of the curtains, and opened the window just wide enough to allow a spectacularly handsome eagle owl to hop through onto the sill inside.

As soon as she had removed the scroll tied to its leg, the owl had blinked its fierce orange eyes once, and then soared silently from the window.

It was a brief letter, in exquisitely neat handwriting:

_To Miss H. J. Granger –  
><em>_Mr and Mrs Malfoy seek to engage a tutor for their son (until recently a student at Durmstrang School). Any such tutor must (1) have achieved 'Outstanding' grades at least five N.E.W.T. disciplines (2) possess a diligent and thorough approach to their work and (3) be able to commit the next ten months of their career to the concentrated development of a single pupil towards N.E.W.T. exams in the coming June.  
><em>_If you might be able to fill this position, please respond as soon as is convenient, so that we might discuss further details._

It was the glorious simplicity of it all that had immediately appealed to Hermione. Ten months away in the famed Wiltshire Manor, with the space – and peace – to consider her career options, all the while going over once more the magical skill she had accumulated during her seventh year at Hogwarts. It was perfect.

Hermione had not let the rumours surrounding the Malfoy family impede her decision. Mr and Mrs Malfoy were often mentioned in the _Prophet _on account of their wild, lavish house parties, but, as Hermione told herself, they were mentioned just as often for the large charitable donations they made to St Mungo's Hospital. She had the vague idea, too, that Mr Weasley might have mentioned Mr Malfoy once or twice in connection to Death Eater activity before the Dark Lord's downfall in Godric's Hollow – but that had been almost twenty years ago.

She wouldn't even have to _see _the parents much, anyway, Hermione had argued internally. It was their son who would occupy the majority of her time at the Manor. It transpired, after Hermione had returned a letter of interest, that the Malfoy boy had passed six years of magical education at Durmstrang Institute by the skin of his teeth – and then failed the final, seventh, year. It would be Hermione's job to ensure that the same would not happen again.

Confident in her ability to make this vital change, Hermione had accepted.

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><p>This feeling of self-assuredness, however, seemed distant now.<p>

Having been shown to her bedroom by a house-elf wearing a crisp, white towel in the fashion of a toga, and informed that she was to meet with Mrs Malfoy in the drawing room at ten o'clock that morning, Hermione was sitting on her new bed, waiting. The room was simple yet ornate; the bed was covered in snowy white linen and surrounded by heavy emerald hangings, a fireplace – already laid – was set into the far wall, and a wooden desk and chair stood before the diamond-paned window.

This window overlooked the garden at the back of the house – a vast expanse of parkland that Hermione was already itching to explore. Far across the immaculately landscaped lawns, deer moved like ants, cropping the grass. She thought that she could see the corner of a lake in the distance.

Hermione twisted her fingers together, more aware of her pulse than normal.

The room, while beautifully arranged, was not quite as welcoming as she had envisaged. It was almost brutally plain; there were no books or ornaments or pictures. It was as though the room functioned solely to accommodate her as she slept and worked, rather than to make her _comfortable_, exactly.

Hermione frowned slightly, wondering where she might find a library in the vast house. If she'd even be allowed in it...

The nervous sense of interiority overtook her once more as the hands of the clock on the mantelpiece inched inexorably towards ten.


	2. Breakfast with Narcissa

**A/N:** I couldn't resist posting the next chapter already! Thank you so much to all reviewers, especially guest reviewers to whom I am unable to reply – I really appreciate that you took the time to write something for me :) Keep 'em coming! Now, time to meet the Lady of the Manor... have fun! And Merry Christmas! xx

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><p>A smart knock at the door rang suddenly through the room.<p>

Hermione felt as though her heart had doubled its pace; _surely she wasn't late?_ Looking wildly at the clock, which showed five minutes to the hour, she leapt to her feet, hurried across the room, and wrenched open the door.

"Oh! Er – hello, Daisy," she said breathlessly, brought up short by the unexpected appearance of the house-elf who had shown her to her bedroom not an hour before.

"Good morning, Miss," Daisy replied in her squeaky voice, her eyes politely downcast, "I is to escort you to the drawing room, Miss, where Ma'am is breakfasting."

She bobbed a small curtsey.

Hermione frowned slightly. The elf, while being at all times impeccably courteous, had not once met her eyes during their – admittedly brief – acquaintance. This mannerism was something that had bothered Hermione ever since she was a very small child, as it often indicated when a person was lying. Daisy's demeanour, however, rather than being one of deceit, was merely one of complete and utter subservience to the family who owned her. This bothered Hermione even more.

"Is Miss ready?" piped Daisy, her voice politely insistent.

"What? Oh – yes, of course. Sorry."

Hermione jerked from her reverie and followed Daisy, shutting her bedroom door behind her.

Although the sun had risen well above the horizon, the light through the diamond-paned windows of the corridor did not greatly illuminate it. Hermione stared around through the gloom as they began to progress through the old house. They walked in silence through corridor after corridor, passing vast rooms, niches occupied by statues, and portraits of ghostly-white people, all dressed in costumes from various historical periods.

"Daisy?"

"Yes, Miss?"

The elf did not stop and turn around, but continued at a brisk trot that kept Hermione hurrying after her.

"Do you... like it here?"

"Yes, Miss."

The conversation ended there. They had arrived outside the drawing room door, behind which Hermione could hear the delicate chiming of a clock striking ten.

"Good morning, Miss," Daisy squeaked, dipping briefly into another small curtsey and trotting away down the corridor. Hermione stared after her, completely at a loss. She had never met a house-elf who was so rigorously trained, so meekly subservient. Although, Hermione considered, the only elves she could compare her to were the Hogwarts house-elves she had met – after a tip-off about the kitchens from Fred and George – and they were highly unlikely to be poorly treated, given that Dumbledore was their employer.

Remembering what she was supposed to be doing, Hermione straightened her robes and knocked smartly on the door.

"Come in."

The voice was low and mellifluous – indeed, Hermione barely heard it. Pushing open the door, she stepped carefully inside, her heart in her mouth.

Mrs Malfoy was sitting alone before an enormous bay window, at a glass table which was spread with a magnificent breakfast. Her posture was relaxed, even lazy; she had one leg drawn up under her, and one elbow propped on the table-top. Her lithe figure was draped in a dramatic Chinese silk gown, patterned with bright red lotus flowers, and her hair hung loose down her back.

She looked round at Hermione, a slender blonde eyebrow cocked.

"Well, come here then."

Somewhat affronted, Hermione walked across the room towards the glass table and its occupant, and came to a halt.

Narcissa Malfoy was more than Hermione had expected. Having seen her photograph in the _Prophet _on occasion, Hermione had already known that the woman was tall and slim, with a long sheet of white-blonde hair. What she had not anticipated, however, was the sheer langurousness of the woman's manner, the iciness of her blue eyes, and the superior, appraising look that flickered now and then across her perfect features.

"Miss Granger?" Mrs Malfoy asked enquiringly, breaking a croissant in two with her white, delicate hands and glancing up at Hermione, who nodded mutely.

"Is your room to your liking?" she continued after a dainty mouthful of croissant, her voice surprising Hermione again with its honeyed, slightly husky tone.

"Very much so," said Hermione, not entirely truthfully, "It's –"

"I'm glad to hear it," cut in Mrs Malfoy, flashing her a brief, cool smile and spearing a cube of melon on a silver fork. "I brought you here this morning so that we could discuss all of the details of your tutorship before you meet my son, Draco." She popped the cube in her mouth and chewed carefully.

"Okay," Hermione replied, uncertainly. She was baffled by this woman's manner; it was superior, and her words were rather abrupt, but Hermione did not find her _rude,_ exactly. In fact, the soft, low tone of her voice was enchanting; Hermione had the vague notion that she would enjoy listening to it even if Mrs Malfoy was reprimanding her.

"Now," Mrs Malfoy went on, taking a sip of grapefruit juice and dabbing her lips with a white napkin, "I thought that you could spend this afternoon ascertaining what Draco's strengths and weaknesses are, before starting on your lessons tomorrow. My husband Lucius and I are most anxious that Draco should not need to take these N.E.W.T. exams twice..."

She let her voice trail away; a ladylike threat.

"We would like your lessons to maintain an even balance of theory and spellwork. You should find everything you need in the schoolroom, but if there's anything missing, just ask a house-elf. We should be able to get you anything that you feel would be of benefit to Draco's progress. Hours will be from nine o'clock until four o'clock, with an hour for lunch. Weekends off, of course... and we'll sort out your holiday arrangements when we get closer to Christmas. Is that clear?"

"I think so," Hermione replied, feeling as though to disagree – had she needed to – would have been a remarkably silly thing to do.

"Excellent," said Mrs Malfoy, dripping honey onto a bowl of Greek yoghurt with a tiny spoon. "In that case, feel free to take a walk in the grounds before you have your lunch – the house-elves will get you whatever you want – and then meet with Draco in the schoolroom at one o'clock. I'll ensure he's not late."

"Yes, Mrs Malfoy," Hermione said, feeling like a primary school student once more. "Is there – is there anything in particular you'd like me to focus on?"

Pursing her lips thoughtfully, Mrs Malfoy leaned slightly across the table to reach the coffeepot, and the shoulder of her Chinese robe slipped down, revealing a silky cream nightdress. The hard bud of her nipple was clearly visible beneath the fabric, and Hermione, with a warm flush of embarrassment, averted her eyes.

"Not at the present," Mrs Malfoy replied at length, pouring herself a miniscule cup of coffee. "Either Lucius or I will inform you if anything arises. Which reminds me – I expect he'll want a look at you when he returns from the Ministry, so be ready to come downstairs at..." she glanced vaguely at the clock, "about seven."

She looked at Hermione, and her eyes widened for a moment, and then narrowed slightly in cold amusement as she realised the cause of Hermione's embarrassment.

Instead of gathering her gown around her, however, Mrs Malfoy stretched her arms languorously, so that the delicate cream material of her nightwear slid and tautened over her breasts.

"Well," she said, with a delicately stifled yawn, "I expect I'll be seeing you later on, Miss Granger. Lucius is due to Floo at any moment; I will inform him of your arrival. Good morning."

Hermione, the flush still red in her cheeks, turned on her heel and marched towards the door, just as the empty fireplace burst into life with bright green flames. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Mrs Malfoy flit over to the hearth, her silks rustling around her, and crouch down to talk to her husband, whose head, no doubt, had appeared in the fire.

"Darling..."

Hermione slipped back through into the corridor, closing the drawing room door and leaning her back against it. She sighed, letting her head fall silently back against the wood. What had she let herself in for? She had never felt so utterly cowed in anyone's presence before – not even on the rare occasions she had been chastised by her formidable Head of House, Professor McGonagall. But Narcissa Malfoy had not merely been coldly intimidating; she had been a vision of sprawling sexuality...

Hermione swallowed, trying to ignore the warm, throbbing feeling deep in her groin.

She shivered as she heard voices in the room she had just vacated. Lucius' voice was too deep to distinguish, but his wife's, though husky for a woman, floated clearly though the wood.

"Oh, and darling, the mudblood has arrived."


	3. The Schoolroom

**A/N: **Welcome back, and happy 2015! I hope those of you who celebrate Christmas had lovely festivities/travels! I did, although I missed writing this story very much. Now, back to the Manor to meet young Master Malfoy... what's the betting he and Hermione will get on?

Reviews make me write faster... ;) Oh, and things will get a little more M-rating-ish next chapter, just as a warning. xx

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><p>Hermione stomped down a gravel path through the grounds, hardly noticing where she was going.<p>

She had only been at the Manor two hours, and she already felt stifled by it. She had, of course, expected to be nervous in advance of meeting her first ever student – after all, what new teacher wouldn't be somewhat apprehensive of the complete unknown? However, accompanying her nerves was a myriad of other, very different emotions. The Manor itself gave her a creeping, claustrophobic feeling; the eyes of pale, painted faces followed her as she walked past their portraits, and the corridors and winding stairs felt as though they could go on forever. The deserted, silent nature of the house, too, reminded her of her isolation so strongly that true loneliness seemed to be approaching already. To make matters worse, she also felt completely bewildered by her social position within the household.

It felt like a stupid thing to admit to herself.

But Hermione felt as though she was a tiny island between two, vastly different continents.

The house-elves, judging from Daisy's attitude, seemed to regard her as someone superior to them; a similar, though less venerated, version of 'the Family'. On the other hand, the Malfoys, judging from Mrs Malfoy's attitude earlier, were of the opinion that she was as much of a commodity as their servants – _slaves, _Hermione reminded herself, her brow furrowing as she remembered Daisy's short, prescribed responses to her questioning earlier on.

_Mudblood._

Hermione stopped in her tracks and kicked violently at the path, scattering tiny pebbles in all directions. The sound seemed to bring her back to herself; she took a deep breath in, and stared around at her surroundings.

She was near an ornamental fishpond, where a few fat orange koi floated idly. The path she was on led down from the terrace in front of the drawing room window – Hermione could have sworn that the prickling feeling on the back of her neck was someone watching her – then ran alongside a tall evergreen hedge, a cluster of which framed different, smaller gardens, out of sight of the Manor.

She was completely alone.

Hermione tilted her head back to look at the grey clouds, then let out a sigh. She chewed her lip.

What should she do? Her first instinct was to put as much distance between herself and Malfoy Manor as possible – for she was undoubtedly going to be tormented by the superior, indulged air of her host family. But... what about Daisy? Hermione felt as though she couldn't just slip away again without getting to know the house elf better, and meeting the others that worked there. Their plight was certainly worse than hers; as far as she knew, she wasn't obliged to follow _all _of the Malfoys' orders...

Or was she?

Hermione frowned.

The thought hadn't crossed her mind until now. She couldn't imagine taking Mrs Malfoy to task about her attitude. At what point was it acceptable to protest against her treatment? _Her treatment..._ Hermione scoffed at herself, and continued to tramp along the path. She was tougher than this, wasn't she? Had she not endured far worse treatment before? From the Slytherins, at school? From Professor Snape, even?

It was only a word.

But it still hurt.

Hermione breathed deeply as she tried to walk a little more calmly. She could hear the sound of flowing water somewhere off to her right; squinting through the dense hedge, Hermione caught a few glimpses of an ornate stone fountain in the middle of what looked like a hidden courtyard. Making a mental note to come back and explore further when she was next at liberty to do so, Hermione checked her watch, then turned and set off towards the house again.

She was being ridiculous.

One woman had made her feel slightly uncomfortable. No – one woman had _inadvertently _made her feel slightly uncomfortable. If Hermione was honest with herself, it was the sudden awareness of Mrs Malfoy's body that had disturbed her more than the use of the word 'mudblood'. Besides, she had only met the woman that very morning; who was Hermione to judge her from one single conversation lasting less than five minutes? Hermione recalled her early acquaintance – almost _enmity _– with Harry and Ron. She had _loathed _their recklessness and their rudeness. But now, they were her best friends.

As Hermione walked back up the steps towards the terrace, she resolved to withhold judgement of the Malfoys until she had properly experienced their company for a significant length of time. She would behave courteously towards Mrs Malfoy and her husband, despite their carelessness with their language, and she would do her utmost to make teaching their son a pleasant experience. This was, after all, her very first job, and she wanted to come across as calm, professional, and capable.

Rather than over-sensitive and hysterical.

Feeling refreshed by this reasoning, Hermione crossed the terrace and disappeared once more into the gloomy Manor to find some lunch.

The prickling feeling followed her.

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><p>Draco Malfoy was as startlingly beautiful as his mother.<p>

Hermione had been sitting in the schoolroom, running her finger down a list of subject modules, when the sound of the door opening had made her look up. The boy had closed the door again, settled himself in the chair in front of her desk, and assumed an expression of careless interest before Hermione had pulled herself together enough to greet him and tell him her name. Following that, she suggested that they address one another on a first-name basis rather than using the formalities of school, given their almost identical ages.

"Draco," he offered back, unsmiling.

"R-right," Hermione said, her stomach churning with embarrassment when her voice came out slightly strangled. "Well, during a meeting this morning, your mother suggested that we use the next three hours to go over the seventh-year Hogwarts syllabus, so that I can ascertain your strengths and weaknesses."

Draco's pale grey eyes narrowed at her last word, but he did not speak.

"So," Hermione went on, forcing herself to speak calmly while her insides raged on, "I thought that I could give you this list, and you could note down how you feel about each topic. Using a traffic light system would probably be simplest; red for bad, green for good."

She flicked her wand and three bottles of ink appeared on Draco's desk – red, yellow, and green.

He raised his eyebrows coldly. "But surely you've been through all of my exam marks?"

"Yes," she said simply, "But I'd like to know how you feel about each part of your subjects as well. It's good to approach a year's worth of work by striking a balance between how _good _you are at certain things and how you _feel_ about them. Magic often comes more easily when you're being a show-off about it."

Draco was silent for several moments. Then he picked up an eagle-feather quill, observed the list for a few moments, and bent his head to work.

Hermione let out a silent, steadying breath and placed her hands palm-down on the teacher's desk to cool them. Her pulse was racing, and she was more than usually aware of how her body occupied its space in the room.

Draco remained silently working for several minutes, during which time Hermione studied him. His hair was the whitest blond she had ever seen – apart from Mrs Malfoy's, she reminded herself. His face was pale and slightly pointed, but it only served to complement the strong bone structure beneath the almost translucent skin. He sat with exceptional posture, with only his head bent slightly to work. While only eighteen, his shoulders and chest were still relatively slim, but Hermione felt that she could sense physical power there. He was left-handed; the right lay flat on the desk, in the same way that Hermione's did.

She whipped her hands back into her lap immediately.

Draco looked up, and silently handed over the list.

Hermione scanned it. There was a definite trend evident on the page; the green ink dots sat neatly next to each subject's theory, while the red and yellow dots decorated all of the practical aspects of the syllabus. Her eyebrow cocked unconsciously when she noted the tiny red spots next to each of the Defence Against the Dark Arts topics.

"What?" he demanded at once, his voice belligerent.

"Nothing at all," she replied smoothly, setting the paper to one side and getting to her feet. "Stand up, please, and draw your wand."

Draco got quickly to his feet, his fingers fumbling for his wand at once. "What are we doing?"

Hermione raised her wand to her own throat and muttered, "_Sonorus," _before continuing in a magically-amplified voice, "I'd like you to follow each of the spells I cast with a spell that counteracts it. There won't be anything dangerous, don't worry," she added, as his eyes flickered between hers.

Comprehension dawned on him, and Hermione was surprised to see that he visibly relaxed at her words.

She had no time to dwell on this, however, as Draco pointed his wand at her throat and said, "_Quietus."_

"Good," said Hermione. _"Engorgio!"_

The clock hanging on the schoolroom began to swell. It grew larger and larger until its hook began to tremble under its weight –

"_Reducio!"_

"_Incendio!"_

The paper in the waste-basket burst into flames.

"_Agua - aguamenti!"_

"_Reducto!"_

The chair Draco had been sitting in was reduced to a pile of splinters.

"_Reparo! REPARO!"_

He treated her spells as attacks, countering them in a hurried, erratic manner that seemed – was it fearful?

Eventually, Hermione called a halt to proceedings, and gestured Draco back towards his newly-reconstructed chair. Two light pink patches had appeared on his high cheekbones, and his hair was slightly tousled from extracting himself from ropes with a nifty _Diffindo. _Hermione found herself looking at him for slightly too long again as he flopped back down and giving her a cold, appraising look.

"No wonder you came top of your year," he remarked.

It wasn't a compliment. Hermione felt taken aback by the iciness in his voice.

"I imagine your _parents _were proud."

Hermione looked sharply at him, wondering whether or not she had imagined the slight emphasis placed on the word 'parents'. His expression was inscrutable, but a light seemed to dance in his grey eyes.

"Exceptionally," she said, coolly, and he accepted this retort with nothing more than a slight lift of his chin.

When Hermione dismissed him shortly afterwards, she sat at her desk for several minutes, allowing this new and surprising element of life at Malfoy Manor to arrange itself around her. Like his mother, Draco Malfoy was arrogant, unnerving, and ridiculously attractive. She shook her head firmly, and re-concentrated her musings on his ability as her student.

His spellwork were cast out of fear as well as necessity... or so it seemed, anyway. But _how_ could a boy achieve such exceptional marks in theory and have so little control over his wandwork?

Frowning, Hermione tidied away her things and headed towards the door. As she did so, her gaze fell upon the clock on the wall which had so recently been magically manipulated. With the immediacy of being plunged into icy water, Hermione remembered that she was unable to collapse on her bed and read until she fell asleep, despite how much she needed to.

She groaned.

Mr Malfoy would be home in a few hours.


	4. A Pre-Dinner Tipple

**A/N: **Hello again! Thanks for the feedback so many of you left; it motivates me to write like nothing else! You're all lovely :D xx

In response to Jujubird's guest review: Yes, at this point in the story, Hermione is eighteen. Her birthday (the 19th of September) is coming up very shortly though. Thanks for getting in touch – I hope you enjoy the rest of the fic!

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><p>Hermione was sitting alone in a small salon attached to the dining room.<p>

Having been fetched from her bedroom by the perpetually subservient Daisy, and politely instructed to remain in the salon until 'the Master' came to see her, Hermione could do little else but stare around at her surroundings and wonder whether 'the Master' could bewilder her any more than his wife and son had already done.

The room was extremely dim; the candelabras bathed the space in a flicking golden light that seemed to press in on the senses like an aroma. It cast the shapes of the chairs, sofas, and side tables into sharp relief. All of the furniture was carved from what appeared to be mahogany, and was upholstered in dark green damask. The walls were panelled in a similar dark wood, and Hermione could not stop herself from imagining what kinds of secret passages a house like Malfoy Manor might conceal with sliding panels and hidden levers...

She shivered, and tried to pull herself together. _Childish._

But still, as the clock on the mantelpiece continued to tick, and the impenetrable evening darkness pressed against the diamond-paned windows, Hermione felt, for the third time that day, stifled by her own nerves. The delicious smell of roasting meat floating from the dining room did little to alleviate the flutterings in her stomach. Her pulse ticked along with the clock, in her throat, wrists, and groin.

In fact, she felt even more nervous at this moment than she had done so far that day. Perhaps, she thought wryly, as her fingertips smoothed the fine green upholstery on the arm of her chair, that was because she had already had a taste of what the Malfoy family was like.

Try though she might, Hermione could not put her finger on what precisely it was that baffled her so much about Narcissa Malfoy and her son. Both came across as intelligent, articulate, and self-assured – but there was something else beneath their veneers of astonishing beauty; something Hermione could not identify. But then again, even as she tried to work out what that _something _was, she was confronted by the fact that the two were startlingly different. Mrs Malfoy was almost too comfortable in her own skin, and moved with a feline sensuality that she used as a weapon. Draco, on the other hand, though still possessing that careless arrogance, was concealing some kind of... vulnerability? Was that what it was?

Suddenly, Hermione turned her head to the door and became very still. Footsteps were growing steadily louder in the passageway outside the door.

Struck by a sudden disinclination to be found sitting down, Hermione leapt to her feet just as the door opened.

Lucius Malfoy was almost shockingly like his son.

As he closed the door behind him, Hermione saw another version Draco's tall, slim figure, broadened and affirmed with age. The hair, though the same white-blond colour, was long, and tied discreetly back with a black velvet ribbon. As he approached her, smiling, she found herself gazing up into the same fair, pointed face that had stared at her with so much belligerence just a few hours previously.

"Miss Granger, I presume?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, dipping her head slightly and wondering why she was doing so.

The corner of his pale mouth turned up in amusement at her gauche introduction, and he extended a hand. Nervously, she took it with her own – but instead of shaking her hand as she had expected him to, Mr Malfoy raised it up to chest-height, then bent his face low to kiss it.

"Miss _Hermione _Granger."

His lips brushed her skin.

Hermione gritted her teeth while he could not see her; his physical proximity was overwhelming.

When he looked up, he smiled again, then squeezed her hand ever so gently before releasing it. Hermione smiled uncertainly back, feeling as though she might start laughing hysterically at any moment with the sheer strangeness of the whole day.

"I must apologise, Miss Granger, for being unable to meet with you before you saw Draco; I had an engagement at the Ministry of Magic that required immediate attention. I trust that my wife was able to answer any questions you had?"

His voice was low, smooth, and almost ridiculously aristocratic. He formed each word very deliberately before it left his tongue, and looked at her with an intensity that she couldn't quite pin down – until she realised that he had not once averted his eyes from hers while speaking.

"Oh, yes," Hermione replied, feeling flustered by his scrutiny, "She was very helpful."

"Good, good... And have you managed to find your way around this veritable rabbit warren of a Manor?"

Again, he watched her closely as she gave a quick laugh, then said, "Just about. I had lots of help from Daisy this morning when I was trying to find the drawing room."

"Daisy," he repeated thoughtfully, looking at her with a curious expression on his face.

"Yes, Daisy," Hermione said, an edge to her voice, "One of your house –"

"Miss Granger," cut in Mr Malfoy smoothly, chuckling slightly, and extending an arm to gesture her towards a low, cosy sofa, "I hope you do not presume that I never take care to learn the names of my servants? I am not a careless man."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, and then closed it again, slightly embarrassed.

She sat.

Mr Malfoy smiled.

"Manhattan?"

A silver tray bearing two cocktail glasses appeared with a faint _pop _at his elbow.

"Er – thanks," she said awkwardly.

The tray floated down so that she could take one of the glasses, before floating back up to Mr Malfoy, who took the second. The silver tray vanished again with another small _pop,_ and Mr Malfoy seated himself to the left of Hermione in an ornate armchair.

"So, Miss Granger, tell me about your final year at Hogwarts. Narcissa and I understand that you enjoyed enormous success."

He leaned back into his chair, took a sip of his drink, and watched her expectantly.

"Well, yes, I suppose so," she replied, trying to emulate his relaxed appearance and shifting uncomfortably. "I mean, it wasn't really a glorious triumph though, was it? All I did was spend all of my free time in the library!"

She took a large swallow of her own cocktail, mainly to avoid meeting his eyes.

"But you _enjoyed _doing that, didn't you?" he asked, ducking his head ever so slightly to try and catch her eyes again. "It is what you _wanted _to do?"

"Yes," Hermione replied, surprise taking over her nerves as she looked back into his grey eyes, "Of course. I don't think anyone who didn't enjoy studying could get seven N.E.W.T.s without pitching themselves off the Astronomy Tower halfway through the process."

"Very true."

For a moment, they sat without speaking, with only the ticking of the clock to break the silence. Without breaking eye contact, Mr Malfoy took a sip from his glass, and then set it on the small table next to his chair. One side of his face seemed hollowed by the candlelight.

"Draco spoke highly of you this evening."

"Did he?" Hermione's reply sounded more gobsmacked than she had intended.

Mr Malfoy raised his eyebrows. "But of course. You are, are you not, the brightest witch of your age?"

Hermione mouthed soundlessly at him for a moment, feeling as though his eyes were looking _into _her, but was spared from answering by the approach of light, rapid footsteps outside the door. Looking around, they both saw Mrs Malfoy enter.

If Hermione had thought she was striking that morning, it was nothing to how she looked now.

She was wearing sleek, sleeveless, silver robes with a neckline that plunged to her breastbone. Her blonde hair was piled on top of her head, and her long neck was accentuated by diamond droplet earrings. She had painted her lips with a dark, almost purplish red colour that contrasted her white skin beautifully.

"Darling," she said dramatically to Mr Malfoy, as he rose to greet her.

Hermione sat with her hands clasped in her lap, feeling exceptionally in the way as Mr Malfoy grasped his wife gently by the upper arms, kissed her warmly and deliberately on the cheek, and then gestured her towards the seat he had just vacated.

"And Miss Granger," said Mrs Malfoy, with a slight incline of her head towards Hermione, who dipped her own in response. "How are we all getting on?"

"Very well," replied her husband, standing with one hand on the back of Mrs Malfoy's chair. Hermione's eyes traced their outlines as though she was preparing to paint their portrait; hers dainty, willowy, and impossibly lithe, and his tall, broad, and imposing.

"Good!" declared Mrs Malfoy, plucking his half-finished drink from the table and taking a sip, staring up at him coquettishly as she did so. "I'm completely _ravenous, _darling; I hope the house-elves have outdone themselves."

Hermione, possessed by an overwhelming desire to leave at that point, stood up.

They both looked at her.

"It was lovely to meet both of you today," she said, taking great care to sound impeccably polite, "But I think I ought to go and – and prepare for my lessons with Draco tomorrow."

"Very well, Miss Granger," said Mrs Malfoy, with a cool smile. "Goodnight."

"Sleep well," added her husband. He was smiling too – a sly, knowing smile.

Hermione turned, crossed the room at a march and opened the door, feeling the cooler air of the passageway hit her like a wave. As she passed through, she glanced back at the very last second, and saw – with a thrill of appalled arousal – that Mr Malfoy had leaned down to bury his face in his wife's neck, one hand squeezing her silver-clad breast.

The scene was truncated as the door closed with a click.

Hermione stood rooted to the spot in the darkness, listening to her own heartbeat hammering. Numerous different feelings were rushing through her at breakneck speed – so many that it was impossible to isolate a single one.

A melodic laugh sounded through the wood of the door, followed by indistinct voices, and then a stifled cry.

Hermione glanced down. The light coming through the keyhole seemed to swim before her; a pinpoint in the gloom. Dare she? She paused for a moment that felt like an eternity. She leaned down – as slowly as though she was hoping to stop before she got to her destination – and peered through the keyhole, her heart in her mouth.

Narcissa's arms were stretched out above her, in a cat-like display of delight. Her eyes were closed, and her head was thrown backwards against the chair she was sitting in. Lucius was kneeling now, still tall enough to reach his lips to her throat, where he kissed and licked, his left hand still kneading her breast feverishly.

As Hermione watched, both horrified and captivated, Lucius nipped a trail down towards her exposed cleavage. Narcissa snaked her fingers into his hair and held him there, her eyelids fluttering as his fingers pushed aside the neckline of her robes to reveal the hardness of her nipple; a tight pink bud that he covered with his tongue –

Hermione stood up abruptly.

The noises from behind the door faded as she walked away, as though in a dream, down the dark passageway.


	5. The Perfect Roast Dinner

**A/N: **Chapter five! Thanks for all of the fantastically varied and interesting comments; I love reading them and finding out what you all think. Please keep them coming :) This is quite a meditative chapter on Hermione's part – I hope that it does something to explain what's going on in her head! xx

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><p>Hermione sat on the very edge of her bed, staring out of the window. It was too dark to see anything much outside, but the light from the candles on the mantelpiece illuminated the bedroom enough for her to see herself in a ghostly reproduction against the glass. It had started to rain at some point during the evening; she hadn't noticed when. As the raindrops flinked irregularly against the windowpane, their tinny beats blurred into one continuous thrum. She had been sitting still for so long that she was half-aware of a deep chill in her flesh.<p>

Yet she did not move.

As Hermione continued to stare vaguely across the room, with her eyes glazed and her feet dangling limply, snapshots of what she had just experienced flickered through her mind's eye.

Lucius Malfoy's pale, sculpted lips pressing firmly against the skin of her knuckles... His glittering grey eyes staring at her across the rim of a cocktail glass... Narcissa Malfoy's smooth, snake-like body in its glittering silver wrappings... Her bejewelled fingers clenching in his hair as his lips found her breast...

Hermione shivered, still staring blankly at the black glass.

There was something impossibly sensual about the two Malfoys. It wasn't just what she had _seen, _as she had crouched trembling at the keyhole; there was something in their very essence that made creeping, stirring sensations erupt all over her skin and cause goosebumps. The way they moved, the way they spoke, the way they looked at her... their entire manner made her think about _things_.

Things that ought not to be thought about.

Her thoughts drifted to Draco; the boy was so similar to his two beautiful, blond parents, and yet at the same time so strikingly different. In the very moments he mirrored their leisurely arrogance and their self-assured ability, he highlighted his own weaknesses.

A slight frown puckered Hermione's brow as she remembered the panic with which he had used magic – how _different _it had been to what she expected.

He was so young. _As young as you,_ a voice seemed to whisper in the gloom.

He was also extraordinarily alluring.

_But they all think you're scum._

The thought came unbidden, unwanted. Hermione had almost forgotten the word in the strange sensuality of the evening...

_Mudblood._

How could she still find them so undeniably arousing when she _knew _that they thought of her as inferior?

Barely audibly through the constant pattering of the rain came the hoot of an owl in the darkness. Hermione closed her eyes as she thought of Hogwarts, with its owl post, and its beautifully lit Great Hall, its lake and grounds and gardens, and the ease of a day filled with lessons, and the castle walls that felt so _comforting_, so _different_ to the walls that enclosed her now. It felt like a lifetime ago now.

Being the top student of each of her seven years at Hogwarts had meant that Hermione hadn't had much time to think about... _things. _And now that she was confronted with said things, she wasn't really sure that she _wanted _to be.

Of course, she had stolen more than a few kisses with Viktor Krum when the Durmstrang students had stayed at Hogwarts during the Triwizard Tournament. She had thought that she was falling in love when he had finally approached her in the library and asked her, nervously, if she would come to the Yule Ball with him. He had made her feel pretty, and wanted, and alluring, and she had carried around that secret like her bluebell flames in a jam-jar until – finally! – the night had come and they had danced together amid a hundred other whirling couples. The feeling of all of the jealous faces turned towards her still thrilled her when she thought about it.

Viktor had kissed her outside in the grounds, pulling her behind one of the rose-bushes that fluttered with live fairies and pressing his lips to hers as gently as she could have imagined possible.

In hindsight, Hermione mused, it was the perfect first kiss.

They had spent time together secretly after the Yule Ball, always meeting in the darkening grounds to avoid being teased by either her friends or his. They had kissed for hours under the vigilant stars, sometimes wrapped together in Viktor's fur cape, other times sprawled across it, their skin damp and cool in the spring evening air.

It had been nice.

_Nice._

Nice wasn't the word Hermione would use for the feelings that had been aroused in her today. In fact – _could _she find a word for them?

Terrifying? Fascinating? Addictive?

A surge of guilt twisted her stomach as she imagined once again the glimmering wetness of his tongue her nipple, pink, stiff, begging... She was being confronted by the faint stirrings of her own sexuality in the company of some of the most powerful and domineering people she had ever met, and it terrified her.

A quiet tap at her door made her jump.

"Who is it?" she called cautiously, hardly daring to hazard a guess at who it might be.

"It is just Daisy, Miss," came the house-elf's squeak in barely more than a whisper. "We is bringing Miss some supper – we is thinking Miss is forgetting!" The latch clicked and the door swung softly open, revealing Daisy, accompanied by another house-elf Hermione had not yet met. Between them, they carried a silver tray piled high with food.

Hermione leapt up at once and hurried to help them with the heavy tray.

"Oh Daisy, I'm so sorry!" she moaned, feeling awful as she relieved the elves of their burden and placed the tray on her desk, "I completely forgot to come and ask you about supper. I'm sorry to have made you bring that all the way upstairs!"

The two elves, both wearing matching towels, dipped into identical curtseys, Hermione's stammered apologies seemingly unneeded and unwanted.

"It is no trouble, Miss," Daisy squeaked, keeping her eyes politely downcast. "We is worrying that Miss is forgetting to come for supper, so we is bringing it for her! As Miss is only having soup for lunch, we is thinking Miss is needing something more ample for supper."

Hermione glanced over at the silver tray. A white plate sat in the middle, with knife, fork, and delicately folded napkin. Around the plate sat several steaming dishes, exactly as one would find on the dinner table but in miniature, filled to the brim with all of the trimmings of a delicious roast dinner – gleaming slices of russet-pink beef; golden roast potatoes; fluffy Yorkshire puddings; buttered, glistening peas; onions and carrots roasted to a caramel; dainty shreds of parsley atop a scoop of creamy mashed potatoes; a sauceboat swimming with thick gravy.

A spring of Lily-of-the-Valley rose from a tiny glass vase.

Horrifyingly, Hermione felt a tear trickle down her cheek as she turned back to the elves.

"Thank you," she whispered, tasting salt as the tear slid haltingly against the corner of her lips. "That's... really sweet of you both."

"You is welcome, Miss," piped the other house-elf, and Hermione could see the delight on both of their faces, even as they stood in meek fulfilment of their duty.

"What's your name?" Hermione asked, brushing the tear away quickly.

"Rosie, Miss," said the elf, peering up at Hermione curiously. Daisy, chancing a look sideways at her companion, copied her, and Hermione found herself face-to-face with them at last.

"Is Miss quite well?" asked Daisy delicately, when it became obvious to them that something was amiss.

"Oh, yes – yes, thanks," Hermione said, forcing a smile onto her face, "Just a little... stressed, I suppose. You know, starting a new job."

They gazed at her with politely blank expressions, and Hermione realised that they had never had a 'new job' in their lives. Like many of the Hogwarts house-elves, they had been born into their occupation and they would remain there until they died.

Throwing caution to the winds, Hermione said in a rush, "Are you both happy here? Are you well treated? Do Mr and Mrs Malfoy..."

Her voice trailed away; she was unsure of quite what she wanted to ask.

"We is happy here, Miss," piped Rosie, her voice polite yet firm. "We is doing what we is wanting to do. What we is born to do."

"But," Hermione protested, "isn't there something else you'd _rather_ do?"

"Oh no, Miss!" replied Daisy at once, her voice sudden loud, shaking her head so hard that her ears flapped, "We is right where we belongs."

With that, the barriers fell down; she ushered Rosie towards the door, calling, "We is hoping Miss enjoys her dinner!"

The door snapped shut, and Hermione sank back onto the bed, feeling even worse than she had done earlier. Was she in the same position as the house-elves, who seemed to be completely blind to their own extraordinary subservience? Was she, like them, bound to this family because she felt as though she could not leave? Because she wanted – in a horrible, exciting way – to serve them?

These thoughts, and thousands more, seemed to buzz in her head as she moved vaguely towards the desk.

She hadn't thought that she was hungry, but the smell of the beautifully crafted dinner was intoxicating. It was only as Hermione took the first bite of gravy-soaked beef that she realised quite how ravenous she was. For several minutes, she ate without stopping, her mind still working furiously as she imagined Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy ensconced somewhere far below her, enjoying dinner and each other's divine bodies in the bowels of the old Manor.

Hating herself, Hermione wiped a trickle of gravy from her lips.


	6. Charms and Challenges

**A/N:** Hi again! Thanks for your lovely reviews – I hope I've answered them all individually and not missed any out!

To everyone who has asked for longer chapters and speedier updates: I would love to make that happen, I really would! But I'm back at university at the moment, and am in the process of writing two dissertations (HELP. ME.) which means that my time is very limited. Apologies! I will make up for it during holidays :) xx

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><p>Over the next few days, the rain developed into a full-blown storm. From dawn until dusk, the windows of Malfoy Manor were lashed by sheets of driving rain, and the howling of the wind in the eaves could be heard almost everywhere in the building. The house-elves started lighting the lamps in the mornings rather than the evenings, because the skies outside were so dark that the rooms remained gloomy throughout the day.<p>

To Hermione's surprise, she found that her second and third days were nowhere near as intimidating as the first one had been.

She woke up each morning to find that the fire in her bedroom had been kindled and a breakfast tray had appeared silently on her desk. The house-elves never failed to astound her with the quality and quantity of the food that they produced – so far, she had been treated to eggs Benedict with the most deliciously crispy Parma ham she had ever eaten, an exotic fruit salad accompanied by thick Greek yoghurt, and miniature crêpes bursting with chopped strawberries, blueberries and bananas.

She washed in her ensuite bathroom – a small but cosy room with wooden floorboards, a thick white bathmat that made her feel as though she was walking on fur, and candles dotted around that cast glimmering golden hints on the tub, sink, and toilet. Numerous tiny bottles of bubble bath, foaming gel, shampoo and conditioner delighted her with the most diverse and captivating scents she had ever known.

Hermione found that she was taking the time to dry her hair section by section with her wand, ensuring that she did not rush as usual so that her hair was softer and smoother than it normally was. She also found herself applying careful amounts of subtle make-up before selecting her robes, and staring at herself in the mirror from all angles before leaving the room to start her day.

She had never really cared about that kind of thing before.

But all three members of the Malfoy family were so astoundingly beautiful that Hermione felt duller and plainer than she ever had at Hogwarts. The sparse, practical appointment of her bedroom meant that there was little for her to do there, and the temptation to peer into the mirror set into the door of the small wardrobe grew stronger and stronger with each moment she spent idly in her bedroom.

Lessons with Draco began at nine.

After their strange first encounter, Hermione had been pleased to discover that her charge was an exceptionally responsive student. She had decided that the best approach to their time together would be to focus on the theory of magic during their morning sessions, and then to put their learning into practice during their afternoons; a system that was, so far, working extremely well. What continued to baffle Hermione, however, was how Draco had managed to fail his final exams at Durmstrang, and perform so consistently poorly during his first six years. Either the teaching had been absolutely atrocious, or there had been another, more complex, reason behind his surprising failures...

They broke for lunch at one o'clock.

Hermione visited the kitchens each day, and, at once, a flurry of eager house-elves would appear, beaming, ready to produce anything Hermione might ask for. This never failed to pain Hermione, who continued to make gentle attempts to broach the subjects of wages, and choice, and sick leave with the elves. They were not interested, however, and Hermione consistently found herself being politely chivvied from the kitchens, a tray of steaming French onion soup, crisp chicken Caesar salad, or delicate salmon and avocado sushi in her hands.

In the afternoons, time trickled away like water as Hermione and Draco worked on practical magic.

The schoolroom was like the Room of Requirement, Hermione often caught herself thinking, because whatever she felt as though she needed to help her with her lessons, she found. During an afternoon spent mastering Cushioning Charms, for instance, she had noticed a stack of real cushions standing in a dark corner, which proved exceptionally useful before Draco had mastered the spell.

On the whole, the boy's spellwork had rapidly improved.

It seemed to Hermione that a weight had been lifted from his shoulders; even in the few days they had spent together, his manner had become more relaxed, and he performed spells with a new, articulate confidence that allowed his powers to reveal themselves more convincingly. Hermione did not know what had provoked this change in his attitude towards their lessons, and curiosity ate away at her each afternoon, but she decided not to press the matter. For now, at least.

Dinners, again, were obtained from the kitchens. Hermione, while enjoying the deliciously light, healthy lunches that the house-elves provided, found it very difficult indeed to resist asking for rich, lavish dishes such as lobster or beef Wellington – it was quite evident that she could eat whatever she desired, and the sense of bountiful entitlement was quite addictive.

Hermione had not seen Mr and Mrs Malfoy since That Moment.

In the few days that had passed, she had managed to put it to the back of her mind, and had assured herself that her compulsion to spy on them during that first evening had been a result of the overwhelming, surreal beauty of the house and its inhabitants. She had felt as though she was entering a world in which debauchery such as this was a matter of course. In hindsight, she realised, to peer through the keyhole at them as they had done _things_ had been a silly, foolish action that was completely appropriate. Each night, as Hermione climbed into bed and drew the emerald green hangings closed around her, she placed the seductive images firmly from her mind as she settled down and whispered _"nox" _to her wand.

But somehow, in her sleep, they crept back to her.

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><p>"<em>Respiro borrire!"<em>

Hermione clapped and cheered as Draco emerged from a cloud of pale blue smoke, looking as though he was wearing a goldfish bowl upside-down on his head. He wasn't, of course; he had spent the afternoon attempting to master the Bubble-Head Charm, a tricky little spell that conjured an impenetrable bubble of fresh air around the user's head. Their afternoon class was almost at an end, so it was with a palpable sense of relief – for both of them – that the spell finally responded to him.

Raising her wand where she sat perched on the edge teacher's desk, Hermione sent a jet of water straight at Draco's head. It glanced off the shimmering, phosphorescent membrane of the charm and disappeared into a thousand tiny droplets that landed silently on the carpet.

"Good work!" she said, pleased, the wide smile on her face betraying the sense of accomplishment she felt after each successful breakthrough with her student.

Draco smiled – really _smiled – _back at her, and Hermione found herself staring slightly more than she ought to.

The room was lamp-lit, as the grey, blustery afternoon outside did little to illuminate their workspace. This warm, golden light thrown from the side, and the swirling sheen of the Bubble-Head Charm meant that Draco's features were slightly shadowy and distorted – but that did not conceal the fact that his smile made his features even more impossibly handsome.

He hadn't smiled at her before.

The moment seemed to hang slightly awkwardly between them.

Then, with a murmur and a wave of his wand, Draco removed the charm.

"Well done," Hermione said, still beaming at him.

The smile had slipped from his lips, but there was a softness in his eyes that seemed to drain away some of the arrogant superiority that she so often sensed when he looked at her.

"Thanks."

There was a pause, and then he said, in a strangely expressionless voice, "You're a very nice teacher."

Hermione was taken aback. "What do you mean?"

He considered her for a few moments, his pale grey eyes wandering across her face almost curiously. "I mean, you're very patient."

"Well..." she replied, slightly flustered, "I suppose so."

Again, silence.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, and then began to tidy away his things. Hermione copied him, mainly to fill the awkward silence that had spread out between them. As she stacked her notes into neat piles, Hermione mulled over the question that had been hovering at the back of her mind for the past few days, weighing up whether or not she should ask it...

"Draco," she said hesitantly, as he began to head towards the door.

He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and looked back over his shoulder at her, eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Were you... happy at Durmstrang?"

Draco's eyebrows rose even higher.

"Why?" His voice was hard and sharp. Brittle.

Hermione flushed. "I was just wondering –"

"It's not your place to wonder," he snapped, then wrenched the door open and disappeared through it, leaving Hermione alone, crestfallen, in the sudden silence.

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><p>Later, after a splendid dinner of pan-seared scallops, Hermione decided that, instead of spending the rest of the evening cooped up in her room doing marking when her thoughts were so confused and upset, she would try to find a book to read. She still didn't know her way around the Manor properly, but she felt sure that a house this old and grand would have a library somewhere - and she <em>really <em>wanted to sit and read and forget about the afternoon.

Despite her initial enthusiasm, however, Hermione felt nervous as she padded along the gloomy corridors, through pools of dim light cast from candelabras and then areas of deepest shadow. The portraits of previous Malfoys, pale and haughty in their ornate golden frames, seemed to whisper as she went past them. With a hot, heavy feeling of unease deep in her belly, Hermione hurried on past them.

After fifteen minutes of cautiously peering around doors, Hermione was beginning to think that she would have to come back another day to continue searching, or ask for help next time she saw one of the house-elves.

But then –

A door at the end of a long, panelled passage caught her eye.

Gathering her robes more tightly around her, Hermione walked briskly along the passage and paused outside the door. She gave it an experimental push; it moved silently a few inches, and she peered around it.

Her mouth fell open in astonishment.

The room, warmed to a gorgeous temperature by a large, crackling fire in the hearth, was perfectly circular. It had to be in one of the rounded turrets, Hermione thought vaguely, as she slipped through the door, gazing around at the fantastic room. There were several round tables, with reading lamps, pens, pencils, and – delightfully – jars of sweets and chocolates. Beautifully designed leather chairs were dotted about the tables, piled with cushions and blankets, which seemed to beckon to her to come and sink down among them and forget her worries. A magnificent chandelier illuminated the scene.

And books lined the walls from floor to ceiling.

Feeling as though she might have passed into some strange Nirvana, Hermione walked numbly towards the shelves, running her fingers over the spines of the books. There were volumes of all different shapes, sizes, and colours, with some of the most intriguing titles she had ever seen.

A bright glow of happiness burned in her stomach.

She had just pulled _A History of Animagi in Ancient Egypt _from the shelves, her hands smoothing themselves across its ornate cover, when a sound behind hers made her jump and turn quickly.

Lucius Malfoy stood framed in the doorway.

"Miss Granger," he said, his tone somewhere between surprise and amusement, "Fancy seeing you here."

He took a step forwards into the room.

The door clicked shut behind him.


	7. The Inquisition

**A/N:** Quite a naughty chapter ahead! Let's hope Hermione can cope... ;) As ever, thank you for the lovely reviews; Rachfull, thank you particularly for your constant support – I wish I could reply by PM but this will have to do. You guys make this so much fun! Please keep the comments coming, along with any suggestions you have. xx

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><p>Hermione almost dropped <em>A History of Animagi in Ancient Egypt.<em>

The idea that other members of the household might use the library during the evenings had not even crossed her mind; as a result, the appearance of Mr Malfoy had taken her completely by surprise. She felt suddenly as though she had been caught doing something illicit, rather than merely looking through the books – as though she had crossed some invisible, unspoken line and was now about to suffer the consequences. _Was she even allowed in here? _This single thought beat again and again against the inside of her skull as she pressed the book against her chest, staring at the newcomer apprehensively.

Mr Malfoy chuckled softly at her petrified expression as he sauntered across the circular room towards her, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.

"What's caught your fancy, Miss Granger?" he asked, coming to a halt directly in front of her and hooking a long, pale forefinger over the top of the volume in her arms, applying pressure so that the title was revealed – upside-down – to him.

"Ahh, yes," he murmured, so close to Hermione that she could feel the warmth of his breath as he spoke, "The Kiya Mostafa history. Quite dated, of course, but he's still the leading name in the field."

He released the edge of the book and stepped back slightly, and Hermione clasped the volume back against her chest. She was intensely aware of how powerfully-built he was; he was at least a head taller than her, and his chest and shoulders were broad.

"I'm sorry," she began, awkwardly, unable to meet his eyes, which were staring, bright and unwavering, down at her, "I should have asked to look at the books –"

"Nonsense," Mr Malfoy cut across, "Why on earth would our own tutor be forbidden from the library?"

"Oh, I..." Hermione broke off, uncertainly. "I just wasn't sure."

_Our own tutor..._

She shivered slightly, feeling a ripple of strange, unwanted excitement at the idea of _belonging_ to the family.

Lucius Malfoy stared at her for several moments, a half-smile crooking his pale lips.

He was standing in a relaxed manner, his weight pressing down more through the left hip than the right, and his arms were loosely folded across his front. He was wearing a set of black robes, but Hermione could see that he had on a white shirt underneath – just the hint of a mandarin collar glowed at his pale throat.

She suddenly blushed, hot and fast.

Mr Malfoy's smile widened.

Then, he turned and moved towards a small sofa near the hearth, upon which he sat and carefully arranged his robes about himself. The light from the fire in the grate illuminated his skin unevenly, so that the highlights and shadows of his angular face were even more pronounced.

"Please," he said, gesturing politely towards the vacant space beside him.

Hermione hesitated, noticing quite how snug the sofa was, and quite how little space there would be between them if she sat down...

"I insist," he said, slightly more firmly, patting the vacant cushions with a light, expectant hand.

Hermione obeyed reluctantly, moving over and perching herself on the very edge of the seat, her knees pressed tightly together and _A History of Animagi in Ancient Egypt _still clutched tightly against the front of her robes.

Mr Malfoy extended a hand, and plucked the book from her arms, setting it aside on the small coffee table to his left. He then settled himself ostentatiously against the cushions, turning slightly so that his whole body faced her more directly, and slung an arm lazily along the back of the sofa.

"So, Miss Granger," he purred, with a smile that made a shiver run up her spine, "How are your lessons with Draco progressing?"

Hermione eyed him slightly warily. The hand that he had slung so casually along the back of the sofa was a hair's breadth away from her shoulder; in fact, she was almost sure that she could feel the tips of his fingers – or was that just her acute awareness of his proximity?

Trying to suppress the urge to shrink further away from him, Hermione ducked her head slightly and responded, "Quite well. He seems to have settled down slightly after a slightly haphazard first lesson."

"Haphazard?" Mr Malfoy enquired, cocking his sleek blond head to one side, "How so?"

"Wandwork," she replied simply. "It seemed as though he was nervous of getting the spells wrong, and therefore found the process more difficult and stressful."

"You think?"

"I think so, yes... His theory work's perfect. I get the impression that Durmstrang is a place where mistakes don't go down too well."

"Interesting," Mr Malfoy mused thoughtfully, staring at her with such intensity that Hermione felt embarrassed. "I wonder how you would have fared?"

"If I wasn't a Muggle-born, you mean?" she asked dryly.

Mr Malfoy surveyed her for several seconds, a frown furrowing his brow, before his features relaxed once more into an easy smile. "Yes, Miss Granger. If."

Silence fell. During this momentary lapse in conversation, Mr Malfoy turned from Hermione to reach over to the coffee table, where she glimpsed a cut crystal decanter containing a dark amber liquid and two glasses, which she was certain had not been there before. He poured a generous measure into each glass, then turned back to Hermione and smiled, proffering one of them to her.

"Oh, I'm fine –" Hermione began.

He continued to hold the glass out to her, a soft smile on his lips.

Unsettled, she met his eyes. They glittered.

"Thanks."

They drank, Hermione slightly too fast. The Firewhisky burned its way down her throat, sending warmth out from her stomach to the tips of her fingers and toes. When she had finished her first glass, Mr Malfoy topped it up again at once, before settling back into the cushions, his powerful body still twisted towards hers.

For what felt like hours, but what was probably only a quarter of an hour, they discussed the plan Hermione had devised for Draco's schooling. Their talk was light and inconsequential, and Mr Malfoy was polite and interested, but Hermione could not shake off the suspicion that his engaging her in conversation veiled an ulterior motive. His grey eyes kept sliding between her own, and raking her hairline and face and figure.

He was, admittedly, a captivating speaker. He used his free hand extensively as he spoke, accentuating his speech with elegant gestures that drew Hermione's gaze again and again.

Presently, the inevitable diversion came.

"Do you like my house, Miss Granger?" he asked presently, the fingertips of the hand on the back of the sofa brushing – accidentally? – against the shoulder of her robes.

"Most of it," Hermione replied, finding her tongue loosened by the alcohol.

"What do you like about it?" he pressed, taking a sip from his own glass, his eyes never leaving hers. She found that her gaze was drawn irrevocably back to his whenever she tried to look away.

"I like... the rooms. The rooms are all very beautiful. I don't like the corridors though."

"No?" he asked, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly. "Why might that be?"

"The portraits on the walls watch me."

Hermione wasn't sure whether it was the effect of the Firewhisky, or the warmth of the fire, or the stifling proximity of the Master of the house that was having such an effect on her. Whichever it was, words were tumbling unchecked from her lips, and she really, _really _didn't think that such carelessness was a good idea at this moment in time.

"They watch everyone, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy went on, ducking his head ever so slightly to capture her gaze again, "Why should that bother you?"

"They watch me and they don't like me being here."

"I like you being here."

Silence.

Hermione, looking away towards the fire, tried to take another sip of her drink, but it was empty. She did not know how to react, what to do, what to say...

"Narcissa likes you being here, too," Mr Malfoy said sleekly.

"Does she?" Hermione's voice came out much higher than she had been expecting. The flames in the grate seemed to be dancing faster and faster, casting strange shadows across the man on the sofa next to her. She felt so warm and loose, yet simultaneously so intimidated.

_What did he mean? What did he mean? What did he mean?_

"Very much."

"Oh."

Deliberately, Mr Malfoy reached across and pulled the empty crystal glass from her limp hands, and placed it, along with his own, on the table with _A History of Animagi in Ancient Egypt, _before turning to stare once more, very intently, at Hermione's profile.

"You saw us the other day, didn't you, Miss Granger?"

Colour flooded into Hermione's face, and she turned abruptly to face him, words half-forming and failing on her tongue as she tried, "No? What do you mean?"

"Yes, you did," he said, simply.

Hermione stared at him, taking in every detail of his handsome face. His blond hair was pulled back from his face and tied discreetly at the nape of his neck, revealing the pale, almost translucent skin at his temples and the angular line of his jaw. His face, so strikingly similar to Draco's, was more lined, but it somehow made his features even more charismatic and distinguished. The laughter lines that hooked at the corner of his lips were deepening with every moment; a filthy smirk was spreading its wings.

"How did it make you feel?"

His fingertips were definitely touching her now, stroking gently up and down, up and down against her shoulder; Hermione was delirious, this couldn't be _happening_ –

"I – I –"

"Tell me," he purred, inching a bit closer to her so that their thighs were close to touching where they sat next to each other.

"I can't..."

Hermione had never been so aroused in her life; encounters with Viktor were nothing – _nothing – _compared to this intoxicating, irresistible magnetic feeling.

His fingertips touched the side of her neck, brushing against the tiny, downy hairs that softened the skin below her ear, and she shuddered, visibly.

"My, my, Miss Granger," he chuckled, cupping her dainty jaw in his palm, "You _are _a responsive little thing, aren't you?"

Hermione let out a shaky breath, her eyes flickering between his. She felt like a tiny, fragile bird, captured within the steely confines of his strong fingers – and then his thumb was brushing her lips gently, tracing their outline and feeling their smooth fullness.

"You can't do this," she croaked, her tongue touching his fingertip unconsciously.

"Yes, I can."

Hermione closed her eyes. She felt decided drunk and sleepy, but cutting through the haze of warmth was an almost painful thread of desire that made her want to throw caution to the winds and arch wantonly into his touch.

"But your wife..."

"As I said, Miss Granger," Mr Malfoy breathed, "Narcissa is _very _pleased to have you with us."

Hermione moaned.

Mr Malfoy had shifted even closer to her; their thighs were pressing insistently against each other, and his free hand was smoothly drawing up the hem of her robes, pushing them insistently up – up past her calves, and her knees, until his fingers could touch the hot skin of her inner thigh, where they drew tiny circles, inching higher and higher.

"You're a beautiful girl, Miss Granger," he went on, his voice husky, "And very clever. Very clever indeed. It makes me wonder, though," his fingers quested higher and higher, demanding more smooth flesh, "Whether you've ever taken the time to _enjoy _yourself..."

Very suddenly, his fingers stilled.

They had met the warm cotton of her underwear.

"Hm?" he asked wordlessly, leaning close to Hermione, who was breathing rapidly and unevenly. The question hung oppressively in the air around them, while the fire crackled and hissed: "Do you want me to touch you?"

Hermione sat frozen, her heart pounding so furiously in her chest that she was sure he would be able to hear it. She was trembling with the desire that coursed through her – but somehow, she found herself unable to respond to the question she so badly needed to.

There was a moment of delicious pleasure, as his fingertips pressed hard between her legs, and then – nothing.

He was gone from her side, gone from the sofa; he stood, a column of power draped in black above her. For a few moments, he stared down at her where she sat sprawling on his furniture, her robes in disarray and her chest heaving with desire, before he smirked and slid out of her line of vision.

She heard muffled footsteps fading away, and then the last remark thrown at her before the door opened and shut:

"In your own time, Miss Granger."


	8. An International Escalation

**A/N:** Here's chapter eight for ya. I hope you're all happy and well – enjoy the update, and, as ever, let me know your thoughts :) xx

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><p>Hermione did not see Mr Malfoy again for more than a week.<p>

For the few days following their encounter in the library, she had been on edge. Every corner she turned around, every room she went into, every path in the gardens she followed, she expected to bump into him. But she did not. Even over the weekend, during which Hermione was free to explore the Manor and its grounds at her leisure, she saw neither hide nor hair of him. It was only when she asked Rosie one Thursday evening about the Master's work (in the most offhand manner she could manage) that she learned that he was away on business in Austria.

"Austria? On business?" Hermione asked blankly, "What business?"

"Whatever business it is, Miss," Rosie squeaked, placing a small candle on Hermione's evening tray of beef stroganoff and handing it to her, "It is none of Rosie's, Miss."

She bobbed a curtsey, and vanished back into the bustling kitchen to continue cooking the main dinner for Narcissa and her son.

With a strange sense of disappointment that ignited a subsequent flare of guilt, Hermione took her tray up to her bedroom and ate alone, staring at the diamond-paned window and thinking. She had spent a great deal of time over the past week simply sitting and staring unseeingly ahead, her thoughts jostling against each other to get to the forefront of her mind. While she remained professional and efficient in her lessons with Draco, her mind slid away during moments of quiet study and flitted around the shadowy Manor.

The library had felt like a dream.

In fact, it seemed so strange in hindsight that Hermione often found herself wondering whether it had really happened. The _idea _of it seemed beyond the bounds of reality, but the extraordinarily vivid memories of his fingers touching her always forced her to acknowledge its truth.

She didn't understand why it had happened.

She was just – well, _Hermione_. Just plain, swotty old Hermione Granger, who kept her nose in a book and her desires locked away. She had never thought of herself as being important or beautiful or interesting enough to capture the attentions of people like Lucius Malfoy...

She put her cutlery down with a clatter, angry at herself for having that thought.

_Why was he better than her? What gave him that right?_

Hermione buried her head in her hands, cross at her own willingness to slide into the belief that power, riches, and social status granted you a superior value. It jarred against everything that she had learned from her primary school teachers, from her parents, and from her dislike of the few students at Hogwarts who had made snide comments about her blood status. Yet, despite this derision of her own thoughts, Hermione could not shake off the creeping feeling that Mr Malfoy was just a _better _person than her, and that his interest in her was one of the most unexpected things to have happened to her.

Perhaps he just wanted what all men want, though.

_Don't I want it, too?_

Hermione shook herself mentally, and refocused her thoughts on the motives that might have impelled the Incident.

_Why _would he want to seduce her_, _given how astonishingly attractive and charismatic his wife was? Who would look twice at a boring tutor, barely out of school, next to the glittering langurousness of Narcissa Malfoy?

She was thinking it again.

_I am not less important than them. I am not. Not._

Hermione stood up suddenly and began to pace the small bedroom, twisting the ends of her sleeves in her fingers and running her hands through her hair. She was disgusted by her admiration for the haughty family, yet still, a flare of excitement rippled within her at the idea of being their inferior, serving them, doing whatever they desired... She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped abruptly, shocked by her own appearance.

High points of colour glowed against her cheekbones. Her lips were reddened and slightly swollen from where she had been worrying at them with her front teeth. Runaway ringlets of hair made her look dishevelled and wild.

She looked – it was impossible to find a better word – _wanton._

Hermione walked closer to the mirror and stared hard at her own face, remarking at the brightness in her eyes, the slight sheen of sweat at her hairline, and the visible pulse that ticked away in the hollow of her throat.

Christ.

She had never felt this way before; so electric, so alight with anticipation. Was this merely the result of the advances of a particularly attractive man? Or was it something deeper? Almost unconsciously, she ran her hands up her abdomen until she was cupping her breasts, and dug her fingernails in against the folds of her robes.

Breathing heavily through her nose, Hermione dropped her hands, turned from her reflection, and sank down onto her bed, questions still chasing each other through her mind.

One of the things that had particularly caught her fascination was Mr Malfoy's sleek assertion that Narcissa enjoyed her presence in the house...

What had he meant?

Hermione flopped back so that she was lying flat, staring at the canopy of her four-poster bed.

She was sure that he had intended the comment to arouse her suspicions of Narcissa's sexual interest in her. Which, she realised with a shiver of apprehension, probably meant that Mr Malfoy had shared the details of their encounter with his wife...

Lost in thoughts of the two Malfoys, Hermione slipped into unconsciousness, fully-clothed, on top of her bedspread, her dreams beginning as soon as sleep took her.

* * *

><p>Her thoughts were brought rapidly back down to earth the next morning.<p>

Draco appeared in the schoolroom ten minutes late, slamming the door before he jerked out a chair and sat down in front of Hermione. His normally white face was flushed, his eyes were bright and angry, and she could tell his fists were clenched under the desk from the tension in the muscles in his arms.

"What's the matter?" Hermione asked in surprise, taken aback by the display of high emotion. Ever since she had asked Draco whether or not he had been happy at Durmstrang, he had been treating her with deliberately courteous distance. This abrupt change was startling.

"Nothing," he said, his teeth gritted.

"What has happened to you?"

"Nothing."

"You're upset."

"I'm not upset."

Hermione stared at Draco, slightly unnerved. His anger was palpable in the air between them, but he was sitting as though frozen; he made no movements with his face or his hands.

"Draco, I'm not going to start this lesson until you –"

"Fine!" he snapped, his brittle posture breaking as he got jerkily to his feet and snatched up his schoolbag. "I'll leave!"

"_Protego!"_

Hermione's Shield Charm impeded him before he could reach the door.

He whipped around, his expression furious.

"Take it away."

"No."

Her voice was calm.

Draco's hand streaked automatically to his pocket, but before he withdrew his wand, his hand froze. He stared at her for several seconds, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each angry breath he took. Then, his hand fell from his pocket and he stalked back to his seat, flinging himself down and glaring at her.

With a wave of her wand, Hermione removed the Shield Charm and walked back to her desk, where she sat down and looked silently at her student.

For what felt like hours, he determinedly avoided her gaze, his grey eyes burning the desk, the walls, and out of the window, his arms folded and his foot jiggling impatiently under the desk. However, as Hermione watched, his expression of resolute fury gradually abated, only to be replaced by an even more disturbing one: worry.

"Draco," Hermione said gently.

"I argued with Mother," Draco said loudly, drowning Hermione's question before she asked it.

"Okay," she replied, doing her best to keep her voice neutral, "What about?"

"Father."

A sudden thread of ice chilled Hermione's insides. _Did he know?_ Forcing herself to remain composed, Hermione pressed Draco slightly: "Oh?"

Draco continued, staring dully at the desk between them, "You probably don't know this, but he's been away recently... away on business."

"I see," she said, her stomach knotting itself within her.

"And I don't think he ought to be," Draco added through gritted teeth, his fingers shredding a scrap of parchment. He was avoiding her eyes again.

"What do you mean, you don't think he ought to be?" Hermione asked, perplexed. "Isn't it for his job?"

Draco threw her a disparaging look. "No, of _course _not. Father conducts his private business through London – _always._ This is something different."

"What?" Hermione asked blankly.

"I don't know!" Draco snapped, suddenly angry again, "Why would _I _know? It isn't as though he _tells _me any of what he gets up to! He thinks I'm still a _child _– and so does Mother. They want to keep me in the dark about something, and I – I..."

He fell suddenly silent, a hunted look passing over his features.

"Not that it's any of your business."

Hermione sat, both relieved that Draco hadn't somehow discovered anything about the strange encounter she had had with his father and perplexed by this new, more worrying suggestion. Mr Malfoy was travelling abroad for reasons that he kept secret from his son?

"Are you upset because you argued with your mother? Or are you angry because you suspect that your father is doing something wrong?"

"Wrong?" Draco let out a hollow laugh. "That's a nice word for it."

"Is it?"

"Probably. If it's the people I think it is."

They stared at each other in silence: silvery eyes met brown. Hermione searched his face carefully for any trace of a lie – and found none. His face was still creased in anger, but the hurt was evident in his eyes. She was desperate to discover what he meant, aching to delve deeper into his extraordinarily complex mind, but her recent attempts at finding out more about Draco's thoughts had been disastrous.

"Do you want to talk about this more, Draco?"

"No."

She looked at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Turn to page three hundred and ninety four."

And neither of them made any further mention of his outburst for the remainder of the morning.

* * *

><p>Hermione took a walk in the gardens during her lunch hour.<p>

Rosie and Daisy had packed her a neat, brown-papered packet of sandwiches, and she had put on her thick, woollen travelling cloak and set off into the grounds, stalking as far away from the needle-like turrets of the Manor as was possible in the time she had available to her.

She ate her sandwiches sitting on a cold stone bench that overlooked a wilder sweep of the grounds, where holly bushes flourished and a stream chuckled somewhere beyond a line of bramble bushes.

It was fortuitous that Hermione had taken the time to relax during her lunch hour, for the afternoon brought yet another disconcerting surprise.

A scroll lay on the teacher's desk, tied with a red satin ribbon. With trembling hands, Hermione unfurled it and read:

_Miss Granger –_

_Mr and Mrs Malfoy would be delighted if you would join them for dinner this evening, in celebration of your second completed week at the Manor. Drinks will be served from seven o'clock in the salon. Dinner will be served at half past seven. Dress robes are to be worn._


	9. New Tastes

**A/N:** Welcome back, lovely readers :) I hope you all enjoy the dinner party as much as Hermione does... xx

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><p>Hermione spent a long time getting ready for dinner that evening.<p>

Normally, when preparing for formal occasions, she just threw on a set of dress robes and added a few hints of extra make-up. Tonight, however, she took a long bath full of scented bubbles, taking care to scrub every inch of her skin with the honeysuckle shower gel that had become her favourite. Afterwards, she applied a light moisturiser and few spritzes of perfume along with careful make-up, before drying her hair into careful ringlets and slipping into her bra and knickers.

Hermione deliberated painfully over what to wear. In the end, she decided to wear the robes that most resembled a Muggle dress – they were made of a pale, peach-coloured silk, and featured a fitted bodice, skirts that fell to just above her knees, and sleeves of sheerest chiffon.

She finished the ensemble with gold, glittering high-heeled shoes and a necklace she had bought on a visit to Hogsmeade with Harry and Ron in their seventh year – not for its association with Quidditch, of course, but for its unfailing ability to remind her of her best friends and the sport they obsessed over so endearingly. It was a delicately-wrought miniature of a Golden Snitch, hanging on a fine chain.

The Snitch shimmered against the pale skin of her chest as Hermione appraised herself in the mirror.

Fleetingly, she wondered what Harry and Ron would think of what had happened to her recently. Harry, she knew, would be horrendously embarrassed at the thought of her having any sexual impulses whatsoever – a fond smile quirked the corner of her mouth – and Ron... Ron would be red-facedly and blusteringly indignant. Hermione had always had the slight impression that Ron had slightly-more-than-friendly feelings for her, but, as they had never even hinted towards the topic in conversation, she had never managed to work out whether she was right.

Hermione touched the Snitch with her fingertips, feeling a sudden pang for the friends she had not seen for so long.

Resolving to try and meet up with them over the next few weeks, she walked to the door, her stomach twisting anxiously.

* * *

><p>Mr and Mrs Malfoy were already in the salon. When Hermione tapped on the door and pushed it open, the first glimpse she had of the room consisted of their two tall figures, silhouetted against the fire that cracked merrily in the hearth.<p>

"Miss Granger!"

Mr Malfoy strode towards her, smiling warmly as he held out his arm in a gesture of welcome, guiding her into the room. Hermione meekly allowed herself to be wafted over towards the fire, determinedly avoiding his eyes.

Narcissa Malfoy looked as resplendent as she had done the previous times Hermione had encountered her, dressed in striking emerald green robes. The upper portion of these robes seemed to be comprised of strategically-placed swathes of material that lay tightly against her front and then knotted in a bow in the small of her back. With her blonde hair smoothed back away from her face in a low bun, and a silver choker that matched the impossibly high stiletto heels she wore, the overall appearance of the outfit was incredible.

"Hello," Hermione said nervously, once the door had swung shut, enclosing the three of them together.

"Hello, Miss Granger," Mrs Malfoy replied, a cool smile on her face. "How are you?"

"Oh – fine. Fine, thanks."

"Martini?"

Hermione turned and found herself face to face with Mr Malfoy for the first time since their encounter in the library. His expression betrayed nothing; his pale mouth was curved into an impeccably polite smile and his silvery eyes held hers in their gaze.

"Thank you," she croaked, accepting the glass he held out.

"Cheers," Mr Malfoy said, raising his own glass to Hermione and then his wife, both of whom mirrored his gesture.

In the moment of silence, during which all three of them took a sip of their Martinis, Hermione was suddenly aware of the weight of the tension in the room. The last time she had seen Mr Malfoy, _he had_ _had his fingers pressed against her knickers. _And Mrs Malfoy, she was sure, was perfectly aware of this.

"So, Miss Granger – congratulations!" Mr Malfoy said, his eyes glittering a way that suggested he knew perfectly well what was going through her mind. "You've survived two weeks in this household without going quite mad."

"Thanks," she replied with a smile that felt so wrong it almost hurt.

"You make it sound far worse than it really is, Lucius," Mrs Malfoy said playfully, amusement in her eyes as she regarded her husband. "I'm sure Miss Granger doesn't find us _too _bewildering, do you?"

Her pale blue gaze flicked to Hermione, who blushed.

"I think I'm coping so far," she said, awkwardly, blushing ever harder as the two Malfoys laughed, the separate sounds twining together in the air between them.

"Admirably, I'd say," Mr Malfoy said, nudging Hermione ever so slightly with his elbow.

Hermione shivered, and moved a fraction of an inch away from Mr Malfoy. In a bid to change the topic of conversation, she asked, "Is Draco joining us this evening?"

Mr and Mrs Malfoy shared a glance.

"No," said Mr Malfoy eventually, with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes, "Draco is staying with friends this weekend. He has some... thinking to do."

Hermione wrinkled her brow in confusion at this cryptic statement. She was about to enquire further, but then remembered how angry Draco had been in their lessons that morning... Perhaps it would be prudent to leave that particular stone unturned. For now.

"I hope Draco's not been bothering you with any of his tantrums?" Mrs Malfoy asked carefully over the rim of her cocktail glass, speaking as though she was determined not to raise any further suspicions on Hermione's part.

Deciding in a split second to follow her instinctive impulse to cover up for him, Hermione replied blithely, "Oh, no, not at all. We barely talk about things that don't relate to work!"

Mr and Mrs Malfoy's faces relaxed into smooth smiles, and, at that moment, a gong rang in the adjacent room.

"Dinner!" said Mrs Malfoy, in a satisfied voice, and, throwing her glass into the air, where it vanished with a soft _pop_, she flounced towards the connecting door. "Be polite and bring Miss Granger, Lucius," she commanded, glancing coquettishly back at them.

Mr Malfoy smiled gently at Hermione, his features softened by the firelight, and offered her his arm.

Feeling a sharp stab of desire shoot down to her groin, Hermione tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, enjoying the strange roughness of the velvet against her fingers, and allowed him to lead her through to the dining room. As they walked in silence, Mr Malfoy brought his other hand up to rest on hers, squeezing firmly in what she knew was an acknowledgement of their mutual awareness of the Incident.

The dining room was magnificent.

It was illuminated by the light of numerous candles that floated above the table as the candles at Hogwarts had done. The darkness of the panelled walls made it feel as though the table in its centre was suspended in an illimitable darkness, rather than a room. The paintings on the walls, instead of featuring the pale, haughty faces that disturbed Hermione so much as she walked the corridors of the Manor, depicted fantastical landscapes – woods, valleys, mountains, and lakes. The rectangular table, though long enough to seat twenty, was laid for three, with places set in the middle of its length.

Mrs Malfoy immediately settled herself on the side of the table with one place setting, and gestured to her husband and Hermione to fill the two opposite her, which they did.

"Ah, excellent," said Mr Malfoy, as soon as he had tucked in Hermione's chair in behind her and sat down himself, "Le Montrachet! Miss Granger?"

He held the bottle poised next to her glass until she nodded shyly, at which point he tipped his hand slightly, pouring her a generous measure of crisp white wine. He served his wife next, before filling his own glass, and raising it in a toast to both of them before taking a sip.

"Perfect," he said, "Let us proceed."

As he spoke, each of their gleaming starter plates filled magically with a trio of oysters, set on a bed of crushed ice, which shimmered in the light of the floating candles.

"Bon appétit," Mr Malfoy murmured, before picking up his first oyster between finger and thumb.

Hermione watched out of the corner of her eye. She had never eaten oysters before, but was unwilling to reveal that by asking for help. Instead, she mirrored Mr Malfoy and tipped the contents of the shell into her mouth in one. Surprised by the cold saltiness, she swallowed at once, shivering a little at the feeling of it slipping down her throat.

"You've not had oysters before, have you, Miss Granger?" asked Mrs Malfoy, watching her intently from across the table.

"No, actually," Hermione admitted, slightly grudgingly.

"Lucius, show," Narcissa demanded in her low, husky voice, sitting back in her chair and cupping her wine in both hands. She looked almost childishly expectant as she watched them, which was strikingly at odds with her impeccably sophisticated appearance.

Mr Malfoy smirked at his wife, before turning to look at Hermione and indicating that she should pick up her next oyster.

"Give it a slight swirl to check that it's swimming in its juices," he told her, demonstrating with his own, "Then, put the smooth edge of the shell against your lips – that's right – and tip it all into your mouth..."

He waited for her to comply without doing the same, choosing to instruct rather than to demonstrate this time. His eyes were glittering.

"Now chew gently – just a few times!" His gaze fixed on her lips as she obeyed, "And swallow."

She did so, the blush rising hot in her face.

"Nice?" he asked, his voice ever so slightly lower than normal.

Wide-eyed, she nodded.

"Good girl," Mrs Malfoy remarked, draining her wine glass and holding it out for her husband to refill.

* * *

><p>A sumptuous course of braised lamb shanks followed the starter, accompanied by a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that made Hermione feel warm and languorous. The conversation remained light and good-natured after the moment of strangeness, and Hermione began to feel – drunkenly, it must be admitted – that she was actually <em>enjoying <em>herself. Despite the overriding sense of erotic tension that laced the room, she felt almost comfortable in their presence.

Almost.

By the time crystal bowls of a spectacular chocolate mousse arrived, the Malfoys were beginning to question her about her family – something that Hermione had been convinced that they would sneer at, given the opportunity. She still hadn't forgotten what she had overheard Narcissa saying after the very first time they had met. But as their conversation progressed, she got more and more of an impression that they were simply accustomed to a world in which such prejudices were commonplace, rather than being particularly militant about the matter.

"Imagine, darling, putting your hands in people's _mouths _for a living," Mrs Malfoy breathed as she scraped the remnants of chocolate mousse from her bowl.

"It does seem bizarre, doesn't it?" her husband replied, "Tell me, Miss Granger, do _all _Muggles go to dentists?"

"Oh yes," said Hermione, taking a sip of the sweet dessert wine that had somehow found its way into her glass, "Everyone has to go for check-ups to make sure there aren't holes in their teeth."

"How horrid!" exclaimed Mrs Malfoy, leaning forward on her elbows and staring at Hermione, "I've never heard of anyone getting _holes _in their teeth."

"No," Hermione said, feeling as though her mouth was talking independently of herself, "I think that's because wizarding toothpastes are impregnated with magic. I mean, I generally stick to using Muggle toothpaste, because my parents prefer it – they don't think magic should happen in your _mouth _– but all of the shops in Hogsmeade, they only sell charmed stuff. Oh my god, I'm talking such crap. I can't believe I'm telling you this..."

She dropped her head into her hands, breathing deeply, feeling drunk.

It was rather ridiculous.

For two weeks, Hermione had lived in a state of constant apprehension in the Manor – and now, here she was, discussing the rudiments of Muggle hygiene with some of the most prestigious purebloods in the wizarding community.

"No, Miss Granger," Mrs Malfoy soothed, her voice like cream, "Don't be ashamed. We _like _hearing about you."

Immediately, something in the atmosphere shifted. Hermione looked up from her palms and stared at the woman across the table. Through the haze of fine food and wine that was fuddling her mind, Hermione remembered what Mr Malfoy had said to her in the library: "_Narcissa likes you being here, too..."_

Mr Malfoy had sensed the change as well – or, perhaps, sensed the change in Hermione. After a careful look at his wife, he slipped a hand around Hermione to rest, feather-light, in the curve of her waist. Ever so gently, he brushed his fingers up and down in the way he had done before.

Hermione registered this carefully. She knew that she was drunk. She knew that he was taking advantage of this. She also knew – no, she was horribly aware – of the fact that _his wife _was watching him do it...

"Lucius told me about your little get-together in the library," Mrs Malfoy purred.

Hermione accepted this silently. Mr Malfoy's fingers were smoothing themselves harder, more insistently, against the peach-coloured silk of her waist.

"You don't need to be afraid that I know, Miss Granger," the older woman went on, "I think you're far too pretty a girl to go unnoticed."

Hermione suddenly felt very hot, all over. Her dress felt too tight – too exposed.

"Lucius, why so distant?" asked Mrs Malfoy, her voice suddenly reprimanding. "Poor Miss Granger, being mauled like that. Be _nice_ to her..."

"Miss Granger... may I?"

His silvery-grey eyes were searching her face. Hermione stared back at him, without knowing what on earth he was asking her for, suddenly overwhelmed by the sensuality of their voices, the pleasure of his touch, and the tightness deep in her groin. By barely a fraction of an inch, she nodded her head, her eyes pleading for his reassurance, which he gave with a small smile.

And then, all at once, he pulled her to him powerfully, off her own chair and into the warmth of his lap.

She struggled, startled by the sudden change in their proximity, but he held her firmly in his arms until her feeble efforts subsided, and she sat quietly.

It was, Hermione thought as she adjusted to what had happened, really one of the strangest things that had ever happened to her. She was far smaller than Mr Malfoy was – the top of her head barely reached his chin – and he held her easily within his left arm while his right hand caressed her. The sensation of her back pressing against his chest was astonishingly erotic; his heartbeat was pressing a pattern into the pale skin between her shoulders, and she could _feel _his warmth through her thin, silk robes. He had a low, strong, musky smell that made her want to press herself down into his lap.

Strangest of all, however, were the pale blue eyes watching her hungrily.

"There's still some chocolate left in your bowl, Lucius," Mrs Malfoy's gravelly voice suggested, and her husband acquiesced, tightening his grip on Hermione with his left hand as his right stretched out. He dragged a finger through the remnants of the pudding, then held it coaxingly against Hermione's lips.

"Open your mouth," he said softly, his breath hot against her ear, dabbing the mousse playfully against her lips.

She obeyed silently, letting him put his finger in her mouth and then licking away the sweetness.

"So pretty," said Mrs Malfoy appreciatively, swilling her dessert wine around its delicate glass and taking another sip. "I want more, though, Lucius. So does Miss Granger – I know it."

Hermione shuddered in Mr Malfoy's lap. He responded to this invisible signal by tightening his grip on her. Then, slowly, he began to slide the silky skirts of her robes up, inch by inch, teasing his wife with the gradual increase of soft pale skin on display. Hermione moaned and let her head fall back; he pressed his teeth against the delicate spot below her ear.

As he hooked a finger into the edge of her knickers, Mrs Malfoy's words interrupted him.

"Miss Granger – do you want more?"

She was leaning across the table, her eyes fixed on her husband and the girl in his lap. There was a look on her face that was utterly predatory, and, in that moment, it was quite clear who was pulling the strings of the scenario.

For several long seconds, both women stared at each other.

"I want to hear it from your lips. Do you want more?"

Mr Malfoy's fingers were caressing her. Mrs Malfoy's eyes were burning her. There was only one answer Hermione could give.

"_Yes."_


	10. A Surfeit of Questions

**A/N:** Sorry for the delay in updating – I've been in bed with the 'flu but I'm slowly getting back on top of things. I hope you like this chapter :) Pretty please keep the reviews coming – I love hearing your thoughts and suggestions! There are some major plot developments coming up over the next few chapters, but I couldn't resist making the most of dinner first ;) xx

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><p>Hermione felt as though someone else had whispered the word.<p>

_Surely, she didn't just say –_

But strong fingers were pushing past the soft elastic at the edges of her underwear, and her breath was catching in a whimper in her throat as Mr Malfoy touched the hot, damp flesh between her legs. For a long time, everything was still, as the three occupants of the room adjusted to this new connection of skin and skin. Then, very gradually, Hermione became aware of the tips of his fingers moving – searching gently for her most sensitive spot. She groaned, and her head fell back to thump against Mr Malfoy's shoulder.

A low, dark chuckle thrummed against her back.

_Fuck._

The hot, heady feeling of too much booze was pressing thickly against the inside of her skull. It felt as though she was temporarily inhabiting someone else's body – surely it wasn't _her _robes that were gathered up around her hips... and surely it wasn't _her _mouth that was releasing such filthy noises...

"Has anyone touched you like this before, Miss Granger?" asked Mrs Malfoy. She was leaning forwards, her elbows on the table and her face cupped in her slim white hands. Her glittering eyes were fixed between Hermione's legs.

"N-no," Hermione managed to rasp out, screwing her eyes closed as Mr Malfoy's fingers began to press more insistently against her, moving round in tantalising, tiny circles. The feelings pulsing through her now were obliterating the memories she still recalled in the space between sleep and consciousness – memories of Viktor's callused hand cupping her breast ever so gently through the thin cotton of her school shirt, and his lips pressing soft kisses to her throat.

"A brand new toy, darling," Narcissa said softly, "Be careful with it."

Hermione let out a strangled moan as sharp teeth sank into the hollow of her shoulder. Mr Malfoy's breath was hot against her skin, and the wetness of his tongue felt like it was burning her. He licked away the pain as it occurred, demanding sounds of pleasure from her.

"I – I can't –"

"Can't what, Miss Granger?" asked Mr Malfoy, his breath hot against her ear.

Hermione didn't even know what she was going to say. How would it be possible to cram the chaos of feelings she had into words? She was horribly torn between the most intense desire she had ever experienced and the wild impulse to struggle free and run. Why was she letting them do this to her? It jarred against her every instinct to allow herself to become so vulnerable. And yet... the sensation of Mr Malfoy's fingers moving rhythmically against her made her want to buck her hips up into his hand and beg for more.

"I..." She tried to speak again, but sank back into her drunken haze before words presented themselves.

"Hm?" Mr Malfoy purred, "Why don't you talk to us? Why don't you tell us how you feel?"

Hermione struggled slightly in his lap, but his left arm tightened around her, keeping her locked firmly against his body.

"Not yet," he whispered, his fingers stilling against her. With a sudden, smooth movement, he pressed his groin up against her, forcing her to feel his hardness. He let out a silent exhalation of pleasure; Hermione felt it ghost past her cheek as she shuddered.

"Stop teasing, Lucius," Mrs Malfoy said in a reprimanding voice. "You're just getting her wound up and not doing anything about it. Put your fingers in her..."

Mrs Malfoy's blue eyes were glittering hungrily in the light from the candles. Hermione, raising her gaze blearily, found herself staring directly back. As the two women watched each other, Mr Malfoy raised his fingers to Hermione's lips and waited.

She smelt her own scent, and opened her mouth, letting him wet his fingers against her tongue, all the while maintaining eye contact with his glorious wife.

"Good girl," he whispered, pressing his groin in pulses against her.

Hermione was vaguely aware of Mrs Malfoy's painted lips curving upwards into a smile before a harsh moan was drawn from her own mouth – unbidden – as Mr Malfoy pressed a finger inside her. She barely had time to register the fact that this was one of the most intense sensations she had ever encountered before he started to move. His left hand had slipped beneath her underwear, too, and taken up the work his right had abandoned, and between the pressure on her most sensitive spot and the feeling of him inside her, Hermione was reduced to a quivering, groaning wreck, enclosed in the circle of his arms.

"She's tight, isn't she?"

The husky voice of Mrs Malfoy floated across the table. Her husband murmured his assent amid a stream of expletives; he was still grinding his hardness against her and the arousal was rising from him in hot air.

Hermione was moaning freely, her head turning this way and that against his shoulder, taken over by the new sensations assaulting her from all directions: his arousal pressing against her, one finger delivering quick, powerful thrusts inside her, another rubbing insistently against the bundle of nerves above...

And the two blue eyes that continued to watch.

Sensation was building deep in her groin; both painful and addictive. Hermione gritted her teeth against the tide, but it seemed impossible to suppress. The sweat at her hairline felt cold, her limbs were shaking, and the combined attention of both Mr and Mrs Malfoy was beginning to overwhelm her.

Two fingers.

The sensation spiked; she was going to come, so soon –

But, suddenly, the full prospect of orgasming on Mr Malfoy's fingers while his wife watched them cut through the haze of alcohol like a knife, and terrified her. Before even pausing to think, Hermione had knocked his hands away with a strangled _"No!"_ and stumbled from his lap. Consumed by panic and embarrassment, without stopping to take in their expressions of shock, she turned tail and stumbled from the room.

How she managed to find her way out of the labyrinth of corridors, she never knew. Tears blurred her vision as she weaved through the streaks of moonlight on the dark carpets. As soon as she found the heavy oak front door, she stumbled through it and hurried down the steps towards the gravel driveway. The night was bitterly cold, and a light rain was falling on the Manor. Hermione shivered violently as she made her numb way towards the distant gates, teeth chattering. The heels of her shoes sank into the tiny pebbles, making her progress ungainly.

_Why why why why why._

By the time that Hermione had managed to pass through the wrought-iron gates and make her way onto the lonely country lane beyond, her dress was soaked, her shoes were ruined, and her face was stained with tears. Taking her wand out with shivering fingers that were barely able to function, Hermione turned on the spot and vanished into thin air, leaving the Manor – and its occupants – behind.

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><p>Two days later, Diagon Alley was bathed in soft autumn sunshine. The storms that had swept south across the country had passed on, and the year seemed to be throwing its last offering of warmth onto the still air before succumbing to winter's chill.<p>

The street was bright with striped awnings and painted signs. The merry chatter of Sunday shoppers blended with the hoots and squeaks coming from The Magical Menagerie, and the clink of spoons on glass from the tables outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.

Hermione walked slowly down the cobbled street with her arms folded, warmly wrapped up in a Gryffindor scarf above her coat and jeans.

Wearing Muggle clothes seemed right, somehow.

After the catastrophic ending to her dinner with the Malfoys on Friday night, Hermione had Apparated, not to her parents' house, but to the apartment Harry and Ron now shared in London. She had been given a spare key as soon as they had signed the lease, and so was able to slip into the extra bedroom without disturbing either of them. They had, in fact, only realised that she was there when she had dragged herself to the bathroom to be sick at about eleven o'clock in the morning, but were tactful enough to just make her a cup of strong black coffee and let her retreat back to bed until lunchtime.

The three of them were going to the Leaky Cauldron later on for an evening meal – on her, of course, to thank them for their hospitality over the weekend – but Hermione had decided to go into Diagon Alley early. She had told Harry and Ron that she wanted to do some shopping, and they had, as she had anticipated, left her to her own devices.

She needed space to think.

The late Sunday sunshine therefore found her alone, with nothing to do for a few hours but meander up and down the Alley, looking in whichever shops took her fancy and leaving empty-handed. She felt hollow and uneasy. The knowledge that she was expected back the following morning was eating away at her insides. There were simply too many questions that needed answering.

Firstly, why were the Malfoys being quite so insistently predatory? Hermione found the idea that they just found her irresistibly attractive unconvincing, and could not shake off the feeling that there was an ulterior motive, despite how much they seemed to enjoy taunting her.

Secondly, what had Mr Malfoy been doing abroad for a week that had so greatly disturbed Draco? Who had he been in contact with and why had it caused such a rift between the Malfoys and their son?

And thirdly, how on earth had she allowed herself to get dragged into the mess? She was terrified at the prospect of seeing Mr and Mrs Malfoy again, and simultaneously apprehensive about continuing to teach their son in the fear that he might find out what had been going on between them.

Hermione scowled, and wrapped her arms more firmly around herself.

She was just considering a visit to Gringotts, purely for the sake of enjoying the hair-raising cart ride down to her vault, when something caught her eye.

A tall, pale figure was walking away from her, clad in a set of dark robes. Hermione increased her pace, curiosity piqued, wanting to find out whether it was who she thought it was. Sure enough, when the person peered left into the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, she recognised the profile of Draco Malfoy.

After staring at the window display with keen interest, he continued at a leisurely pace, and turned down a small side street that contained a number of old book shops.

For a few moments, Hermione stood quite still, allowing a silent battle to rage within her head.

Then, calmly, as though she had been planning it for days, Hermione took a careful look around her, and followed him.


End file.
